When you turned nine, nobody dreamedyour party would be mustache-themed.Guests at the door were asked to wearadhesive strips of facial hairand presto—by that artful touchthe atmosphere was changed so much!Kids looked more sophisticatedwith their muzzles groomed and shaded,while fussing mothers’ trimmed goateescould scarce be taken seriously.Cousins with bushy handle-barsstroked them like bogus Russian czars,and uncles leered like pool sharks(or Stalin, mocked by Groucho Marx).When fuzz beneath your Nana’s nosesent shivers down to Papa’s toes,it made us laugh so hard the guckthat held our stickers came unstuck—and one by one, without a sound,mustaches fluttered to the ground!Unfazed, we drank from mustache straws, ate frosting shaped by mustache laws;in perfect sync, we shared the vibeof living as one mustached tribe.I hope these birthday wonders stickin your memory—and that some new trickoccurs to you, when you turn ten,to turn us into better men.

David Southward

David Southward teaches in the Honors College at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. His first collection, Apocrypha, was just released by Wipf & Stock. His poems have appeared recently in Blotterature, Gyroscope Review, Hummingbird, Measure, and Razor Lit Mag. Learn more at davidsouthward.com.